Editor’s Note: Don’t trust me or anyone that looks like me. I would trust Marlow, but why start there?

– Vic

Author’s note: Today’s piece is a brief respite from my ongoing Road series. As God is my witness, none of what follows is fictionalized.

They Thought It Would Be Weirder

McM and the Doc are old school friends from our Midwestern hometown. They have celebrated with us various festivals of public foolishness, tawdriness and undress for many a year. Since we decamped from our southernmost outpost, they have come up our way to enjoy the Hostess City’s St Patrick’s day.

They thought it would be weirder. That’s understandable given their expectations were set by the Big Easy’s Mardi Gras and Cayo Hueso’s end of October Fantasy Fest bacchanalia. Savannah is one of only three cities in the US to allow public drinking — Key West and New Orleans being the other two. But given its southern manners, we have rules to follow that the other two scoff at . . . here are but a few of the infractions and their get out-of-jail, not-so-free fines:

– more than one drink on the street: $121 (“the Lord gave us two hands for a reason, officer . . .” does not work)
– drinking from a cup larger than 16 ounces: $150 (rarely enforced unless extra large fake Solo cups are in evidence)
– urinating in public: $200 (Savannah provides 100s of porta-johns along the parade route and all over town)
– indecency — none to revealing/skimpy clothing: $500 (this could get you a modeling, movie or TV contract in Key West or New Orleans)
– oh, yeah, have fun, be safe and Erin go Bragh: $0

A long time parade participant from a military base thirty miles south of the city is the US Army’s 3rd Infantry Division. Its new commander shocked more than few with his requested cessation of a long standing Savannah parade tradition of local women rushing out amongst the marching uniformed doughboy’s to smooch their faces with red lipstick. It is a blast watching the newbie soldiers becoming plastered with lip prints. Many by parade’s end sport their own guidons.

First responders and cadets got most of yesterday’s smooching.

This year’s wearing and drinking of the green (hack, ptuie) was different — a modified parade route, extra large crowds due to the sainted day falling on a Saturday, a 6 by 2 block enhanced security zone to safely ensconce a first ever dignitary Grand Marshal — Vice President Mike Pence, his wife and mom — observing and then walking flanked by the 3rd Army Infantry Division the historic part of the route along Bull Street.

What this meant were three things — boat loads of extra people on this route section who wanted to see and celebrate Pence’s presence, lots of people who wanted to protest his presence, and quite a few people who were just pissed that they couldn’t party at their favorite spots along the historic part of the parade route due to the Secret Service’s no booze, no lawn chair, no back backs, no cooler, no tent enhanced rules as well as being required to be TSA-style patted down, xrayed and/or bomb sniffed to enter.

There were rooftop snipers and guys talking into their
armpits everywhere along VP Pence’s six block stroll.

The first two groups cancelled each other out with the third and last group indignant yet restrained — local families of Irish descent have decades long traditions of sitting in a particular spot or city square to watch the city’s nearly two hundred year parade tradition. Their parties’ forced relocation to other squares involved them shoe-horning their folks and stuff into tight quarters on or around other squares. We now understand what Savannahians mean by aggressive civility. This temporary, new neighbor policy was likely well lubricated with bounteous offerings from the foreign invaders of peace treaty mimosas, Irish coffees and canapes.

After the VP’s armored and lead-footed motorcade picked him and his party up at Oglethorpe Avenue, the rest of the parade reverted back to its normal abnormal:

– large men in tiny go-karts (the world’s largest collection of fez-headed drivers IMHO) followed by
– the Budweiser Clydesdales (can’t have the VP or the karts slipping and sliding around in their mess) and
– more bagpipers, fifers and drummers than exist on the Emerald Isle

Meanwhile, our intrepid group of four took turns whispering over the long weekend:

On one square, social media told the story of a gent with a Gain detergent box on his shoulder like a boombox. It wasn’t filled with detergent. Its owner had fastened a bag of wine from a wine box into the St Paddy’s day appropriate festive green box.

“We ate a bunch of Tide Pods and decided the flavor wasn’t quite right, so we put it in here,” the wild-eyed box owner said jokingly.

This winebox was fully functional — complete with a spigot.
The owner likely was not functional well before noon on parade day.

Not as weird as hoped but certainly a strange and fun weekend was capped when W took the Doc to the Wormhole – a millennial al-bar, she thought for some music. We should have known better — some nights the Wormhole is a local watering hole, and some nights it is a concert venue, but wait there’s more . . . it always has billiards and darts, arcades, pinball, as well as old school NES, Sega, and Nintendo 64 games to play — free to all of us attention deficit addled.
So, color the ladies surprised when they were entertained by an open microphone, stand up comedy night for contestants wearing nothing but their underwear. Not a pretty sight of the all-ages, all-sizes, all sexes contestants but that’s one of the many good and necessary reasons for whiskey in our blessed times and lives. Who knew that this is a nine year old Savannah tradition?

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